


than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance

by ripplingtale



Category: Witch's Heart (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-19 16:40:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19136596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ripplingtale/pseuds/ripplingtale
Summary: It took more than one supernova to grant a wish.





	than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance

**Author's Note:**

> Witch's Heart belongs to IZ (BLUE STAR Entertainment) and I, as a writer, didn't take any material profits from the content here. The title is taken from E. E. Cummings' poem; You Shall, Above All Things, Be Glad And Young.

The lilies were withering.

A frown marred Wilardo’s mien as he plucked a handful, and then some. The decayed petals were rough on his skin, rubbing his nerves the wrong way. The scent of death clung onto his clothes, mussed hair, nails, fingertips. The field was brown, black, blue; graveyard of flowers that no longer could taste sunshine and swallow rain, no longer striving storm and courting hurricane.

With a sigh, he tossed the flowers away, glancing at his half-empty basket. It wasn’t like there were no more flowers grown in these parts of the forest, however, Wilardo always made sure to collect all the flowers that crossed his path. Irises, lilies, roses, forget-me-nots, daisies, dandelions, full stop. He wondered whether there were lilies in another field, he pondered whether he could find something else remotely similar should he be forced to.

“Wilardo!”

The shout snapped him off his reverie. Head turned, his eyes easily caught a lone figure that rushed to his side. His concern blank, his worry empty, everything spun clockwise again. Wilardo nodded a greeting as Claire drawled closer, his gaze lingering in her smile a second too long, indulging.

“Hey.”

Claire beamed, and it was like looking at the moon, the sun, the entirety of universe pinned underneath afternoon’s sky. “What are you looking at?” She peered from his side, the gemstones that clung between her antlers gleamed red, white, blue, purple, all the hue Wilardo could count beneath his breath, all the colors that existed when the skies embraced night.

Gaze shifted back, Wilardo slightly gestured to the ground. “The lilies.”

Claire’s eyes followed the direction. Her smile stilled, before falling faster than shooting stars, meteors rain. She turned to look at Wilardo, and then back to the graveyard of flowers. Her voice was soft, in such way she was guilty for the crime of murdering the lilies. “It’s withering.”

Wilardo ignored the prick of flesh when he listened to Claire’s dejected voice; the squeeze of bones, the jab of veins, he had a sudden urge to call upon Noel and see whether the fae could revive the flowers for Claire. Nevertheless, the young man only sighed, heavier than a mere exclamation of couldn’t be helped. His eyes were sharp, pointed. “Someone was hunting around this part.”

Claire perked. Her gemstones tinkled alike shards of mirrors as she tilted her head. “Hunting?” The words left dread on her tongue; pungent, poignant. At the end of the day, for _something_ like them, the only death that worth fear was in the hands of the hunters. “How did you know?”

Wilardo flipped the lid of his basket closed, brushing golden ashes and fading dread away from the surface. “The lilies never wither unless blood is spilled,” he said, as if it was a public knowledge, when not even the only apprentice of the Witch would know about such information.

There were things better left unsaid, after all.

After fastening the lid, Wilardo stood, patting his jacket and pants clean from silver dust and amber coals that may cling onto his clothes. “Let’s go.” Hand outstretched, palm splayed, he waited for Claire to regain her bearings and spin the gears in her head.

She blinked, hand hovered in front of her chest. “Where?”

A ghost of smile danced on Wilardo’s countenance, simply because he was far beyond saved, and the entire cosmos would conspire to swallow each and every weakness one could possess so agony would stay in its lane, so tragedy wouldn’t dare cross the line. “Don’t you want to see roses?”

Claire’s eyes brightened. Eagerly, she reached for Wilardo’s hand and stood. It was no secret the two of them bonded over their interest towards flowers─or most specifically, Claire’s interest towards Wilardo’s job regarding flowers. Irises, lilies, roses, forget-me-nots, daisies, dandelions, full stop. All the flowers in the forest whispered Wilardo’s name like a prayer, like a soft worship over heaven, and it was the most delightful thing.

Their hands were intertwined, still as they walked past brambles, bushes, down the only trail. Wilardo had no interest to loosen his grasp. His thumb brushed the back of Claire’s knuckle in a comforting circle. One circle, two circles, three circles, half every step, crescent. His hand was rougher than Claire’s, years of tending to thorns and ground, petals and blossoms, dripping colors to another better than a mere painter.

Claire couldn’t help but found the warmth from Wilardo’s fingertips pressed upon her neck, her nape, the tips of her ears. Words stumbled down her throat, coming out garbled, crashing down the silence. “Wilardo, you said someone is hunting around here?” She thanked all the gods she didn’t stutter; it would be a double embarrassment for her.

Wilardo didn’t turn. His answer came in a drowned hum. “Yeah. Probably a human, lore-hunter.”

Claire gulped. She wasn’t exactly raised sheltered─if anything, perhaps, Sirius was the one who was raised sheltered more than her. However, lore-hunters were boogeymen; monster dressed in skin and flesh, smile and bones. Even Sirius warned everyone about them, although the Witch’s apprentice never told Claire what the lore-hunters were actually after. “What are they hunting?”

The trail waned into another field. The scent of roses danced through the wind, singing praises, courting bliss, spinning, spinning, spinning. Wilardo caught some on his skin. Claire smiled as petals tickled her cheek. Wilardo didn’t let go of Claire’s hand until they knelt side by side; the warmth of her hand replaced by her arm pressed upon his.

“The winged,” he said, plucking a rose. Blunt thorns grazed his palm, prickling at his veins. Wilardo pulled the thorns one by one, piece by piece, from the top down to the end of the stem.

By his side, Claire watched intently, fascinated both by the way he worked and his words, even if there was nothing special in the way Wilardo moved but grace, poise. She tilted her head, careful to not have any branch stuck between her rousing antlers. “Is there any winged here?”

Wilardo offered the rose to her.

“Who knows?”

Claire bit her smile, gratefully accepting the flower. There was nothing delighting her more than all of these; forest, afternoon, flowers. However, their conversation shaped an echo in her mind, turning acknowledgement into query, and then voiced question. “Why the winged?”

Wilardo picked another rose, flipping the lid of his basket open to place it inside. His answer came without a glance, as if he already recited it breath by breath, as if he already traced it edge by edge. “The wings costs fortunes,” he said, in such way it was a public cognition, erudition.

She turned so fast, her horns almost caught between dangling vines. Wilardo stretched his palm, putting it between Claire’s horns and the bush of roses by her side just in case. “They cut the wings off the winged?” Her voice was aghast, both alarmed and astounded. Eyes wide, glassed.

Her reaction pulled another frown on Wilardo’s face, deeper, darker. As people who weren’t quite human, both of them should know what would happen when a hunter got a grasp on them. But it was as if only Wilardo knew. Or Noel. Or Sirius. It wasn’t that hard to imagine the outcome; he nodded a soundless answer, taking his time to choose one between three intertwined roses.

“That’s cruel.”

But the world was always so cruel, Wilardo ate his own words. Movement halted, mouth half opened, there was nothing stumbling down but a breath, two breaths, words rolled beneath his tongue. Sirius was the one who was in the charge to force reality through Claire’s throat, he was always so much better in it than the kindhearted Noel and hopeless Wilardo.

Thereafter, his answer was a sigh. “You’re right.”

The next day, Claire met Wilardo halfway in his trail. She smelled like cookies, cakes, fruits and breads, Wilardo couldn’t help but wonder what kind of things Zizel fed the girl before afternoon even rolled up, or whether their breakfast was consisted of desserts. He let her sat by his side, watching him choosing and sorting flowers one by one.

“I’ve been thinking.”

Wilardo almost could hear Sirius’ remark of Claire actually could think; a sure proof that he hung around the Witch’s apprentice far too often that he’d like to think. Perhaps, it was because Sirius bought Wilardo’s flowers every three days, or mayhap, it was because there was not many company to be found in this forest but his, Claire’s, Noel’s, and Zizel’s.

Claire tilted her head, dangling gemstones tinkled on their place between the branches of her rousing antlers. Hands folded on her chest as eyes fluttered close, imagination played as possible answers. “Are the winged hunted just because their wings cost fortunes?”

Wilardo’s hands didn’t stop, gaze barely moved, as if he already heard the query before it rippled the silence, as if he knew Claire would ask it all the same. “Do you know why it costs fortunes?”

Eyes promptly snapped open. “Why?” she asked, wonderingly, to the point one would wrong her curiosity as ignorance, despite being someone who wasn’t quite a human.

The basket was closed with a dull whisper. Wilardo moved to tend to his palms, checking should thorns graze his skin when he didn’t pay enough attention. Answers dripped from his lips, easy and light. “They said, with the winged’s blessing, the feathers can grant wishes.”

Claire blinked. “What kind of wishes?”

Wilardo shrugged. “Many kinds.”

But of course, Wilardo wouldn’t know. What kind of wishes? There were this kind of wishes, and there were that kind of wishes. Doubled-edged coin, another side of a blade. Even the universe wouldn’t know what sort of desire one held close before it tumbled down their mouth. Except their own conscience, perhaps. Their own daydreams and reveries.

What kind of wishes? Wilardo wouldn’t know. However, he grasped his own.

Arm stretched, a thumb-sized pouch rested on his hand; Wilardo offered the item to Claire. “Here.”

It was almost delightful how fast stars filled Claire’s gaze. She beamed, blue eyes gleamed akin to the glimmering surface of a lake, filled to the brim with petals, florets, the entire spring from beginning to the end. She gratefully took the pouch from Wilardo’s hand, bringing it closer to her sight before she strung a proper inquiry. “What is this?”

A semblance of smile was pressed upon Wilardo’s mien. “For protection.” He, too, understood that his action encroached to the border of paranoia. Yet, his mind was always back standing at the edge of the field of lilies; the image of rotten flowers danced behind his head.

“Can I open it?” Claire’s fingers were already hooked at the cord that tied the pouch together, excitement and eagerness showed on her face alike words on an open book. There were lusters around her countenance, and if Wilardo wasn’t used to her bright requests, he would cave in.

It would be easy to cave in to Claire.

Wilardo gently pulled at the long twine fastened around the pouch, snatching his gift from Claire’s palms. “No,” he said, as he rose from his seat, just enough so he could curl the twine past Claire’s antlers, the dangling gemstones, down to her neck, stopped at the base of her shoulder, pressing on her skin as a necklace just how he imagined it would be.

His eyes lingered a moment too long on her collarbones, and when he raised his gaze, both Wilardo and Claire paused─time halted, world tuned out; their distance was a breath away from a kiss, a heartbeat way from a touch. Wilardo almost could taste the warmth from Claire’s reddened mien; he would be a liar if he said he didn’t want more.

But would he dare crave more?

Claire tasted like stardust, moonstones, lavender wine and dandelion cakes. Wilardo thought perhaps, he should ask Zizel about her and Claire’s unhealthy tendency to eat desserts before lunch.

As another day waned in, needles prickled its way into Wilardo’s skin. Thorns against flesh, brambles through the bones. The flowers whispered wary, caution, sirens and alarms. Irises, lilies, roses, forget-me-nots, daisies, dandelions, full stop. Frost awakened beneath his steps, the forest was silent, pale and aghast. Wilardo turned away from his trail.

Just as he walked through winding bushes and shrinking lilies, his sight caught a flash of blue, a tinkling of peridot, ruby, sapphire and emerald. Wilardo’s voice was alike a pebble dropped into a particularly deep puddle, disenchanting hurricane. “Claire?”

There was no answer but soft murmurs.

Wilardo stepped further, making his presence known. “Claire,” he called, gaze zeroed on Claire first, followed by another frame by her side. At first, he thought it was Zizel, and then Noel, and then Sirius, and then he drew blank upon the foreign colors of the stranger’s hair.

Claire turned. “Ah, Wilardo!” she greeted with a grin. Without wasting a heartbeat, she pointed at her company, and then gestured her hand to Wilardo. “This is Ashe! Ashe, this is who I─”

There was a pause. Or perhaps, there was none at all.

Ashe’s blade was golden, silver, sinister amber. Claire’s skin easily torn, her flesh easily pierced. She turned to the green-haired young man, hand pressed over the wound stabbed over her stomach. Blood trickled from her palm, from her fingertips, dripping, dripping, dripping. “Ashe?”

Wilardo’s sky crashed over his head. Ashe’s smile widened, and it was alike watching the devil court gold, glory, gospel. It was almost impossible for a human to walk down the path Sirius always took when he had to run an errand to the closest town, unless the human was a hunter, unless the human was a hunter who knew who to tail, who to follow, who to kill.

“Thank you for your help, Miss Claire!”

It was raining feathers.

Wilardo’s wings were like no other, splayed wide with tucked edges, covering both him and Claire in his arms. Thin bones, smooth flesh, feathers the colors of fading twilight; stars around his back, fire around the end, black all around, scattered with constellations. Were a raven to be set on fire, Wilardo was the remains that emerged from the ash. Lesser than a phoenix, more than a crow.

“What kind of death do you wish?” Wilardo’s voice was blades, swords, parabellum shot from a firearm. Hate was bright in his eyes, as he cradled Claire close to his chest, pressing dripping blood into his clothes, trembling heartbeat on his skin, her shallow breath mingling with his own. Claire would be all right, because Wilardo wanted her to be so, because Wilardo would whisper his blessing and plucked his feathers one by one for Claire.

And should it wasn't enough, the entire wings would be Claire's.

Ashe smiled.

“I thought wishes are supposed to be a secret.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading through the end!
> 
> So yeah, this is actually an AU for my original story, I dubbed it as Lore AU. Basically, it's a big nonsensical idea where everyone has antlers (Claire) or wings (Wilardo) or claws or whatever (Noel, Sirius), and I never expanded it simply because I'm satisfied with the aesthetics. I had this idea of winged Wilardo and Noel for a while, but it turned into a very long multichaptered draft and I don't really fancy writing multichapter in these times of the year.
> 
> I was kind of associating Wilardo with Red Riding Hood throughout the story, with his basket and red parka and straying from the path when he was supposed to be staying in the trail. Ashe is definitely the big bad wolf. The mother is probably Sirius.
> 
> Big thanks to my beta, Frey, who also pointed out the Red Riding Hood resemblances in Wilardo.
> 
> Again, thank you for reading, feel free to hit me up in my [twitter](https://twitter.com/kaIsinasi)!  
> \- Az.


End file.
